


After the Wedding

by Mint_and_Cinnamon



Series: The Many Faces of Sansa Stark [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abortion, Character Death, Dark!Sansa, Episode S05E06 Reaction, F/M, Manipulation, Other, Plotting, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:56:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3980623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mint_and_Cinnamon/pseuds/Mint_and_Cinnamon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa was forced to marry Ramsay Bolton, but she will not let him break her. She may not be a great warrior, but she still has weapons of her own. The Boltons are about to find out what happens when they invite a wolf into their home...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys :) I got really annoyed after watching S05E06, but then I started thinking about how Sansa could come back from that and now there's fanfic everywhere. Enjoy!

 

Sansa had known she could never love Ramsay long before she married him.

If he had been kind, she might have tried. She could never have loved any man who bore the name of Bolton – not after what Lord Roose had done to her family – but if Ramsay had been gentle with her she might have at least felt guilty about it. But Ramsay was not kind, nor was he gentle. She had known it the day he forced Theon – poor, ruined Theon – to apologise to her for killing her brothers. He had sat through it all with a goblin’s grin on his face, and that was when she knew how much he had wanted to hurt her.

In some ways, knowing had made the pain a little easier; in others, it had made it infinitely worse.

He had left their bed long ago, when Lord Roose had called him down to the Great Hall. When the sun came up he had tried to have his way with her again, but she had pretended to be asleep, and Ramsay had not seemed to enjoy it as much when she was not awake and whimpering. Now, she moved slowly, her whole body raw, the place between her legs burning. Treading carefully around the shreds of her wedding dress, she found a clean undershift and pulled it over her head.

Her first wedding night had been so different. Lord Tyrion had been so kind to her. He had been just as kind every night after, wiling away the hours with conversation rather than forcing her onto the bed. Now that she had seen something of how other men could act, she almost wished she had stayed with him. Unbidden, one of their conversations rose to the surface of her thoughts. Tyrion had told her about the time he had spent with Jon Snow. Tyrion had been rather drunk when he told her this story, so most of the details were a blur, but the one thing she always remembered was the advice he had given her brother.

“Never forget what you are,” Tyrion had said, as he slumped over a table. “Wear it like armour, and it can never be used to hurt you.”

She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror and saw large, dark circles under her eyes. A lump formed in her throat.

When she cried, she cried loudly, and sat by the window so that everyone could hear.

* * *

 

He came for her again when the sun had set. She had known he would. The Bolton boy was just like Joffrey; he would not be content with hurting her just this once. Besides, he was determined to start a ‘dynasty’; he had told her so himself. There would be no way she could convince him not to lie with her. This time, she would be ready for him. She had sent down to the kitchens for a stuffed capon, dishes of quails’ eggs, stacks of little fruit tarts and several pitchers of wine. She was dressed in her best gown, her auburn hair brushed and gleaming. The words of Ramsay’s mistress – Myranda, she thought her name was – echoed through her head.

_Don’t let him get bored…_

He opened the door, that goblin’s grin spreading across his face at the sight of her. She steeled herself.

“What’s all this?”

She gave him a small, shy smile. “It’s for you, my lord.”

He shut the door and headed straight for the table, pouring himself a goblet of wine. He handed one to her, and did not touch his own until she drank.

“I thought we might dine alone tonight,” she said, still giving him that sickeningly sweet smile.

He raised his eyebrows. “Did you?”

Heat flooded into her cheeks and she cursed herself. She had always blushed when she was nervous.

“Yes,” she said, rather quickly. “Of course, it’s very kind of your father to invite us down to the Great Hall with all his lords, but…they can get a little dull, can’t they?”

Ramsay cast a dark look at the door and Sansa felt a little twinge of relief.

“We are man and wife now,” she continued, “I should like to know you better.”

Ramsay grinned at her. He drained his goblet and slammed it down on the table, and she flinched.

“Is that what you want?” he asked, his voice low.

She blushed again. “I…I don’t…”

He pulled her close, his hands on her behind, and their bodies collided so hard she gasped. Desire was already glittering in his eyes.

“One little taste and you’re already begging for more,” he said, smirking, “and they told me you were a proper little lady.”

She looked away, thinking fast. “Forgive me, my lord,” she whispered, “I…I had never known what a man and a woman might do to each other...it’s all so…”

He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him, wrenching her neck. “So _what_?”

She licked her lips; his eyes followed her tongue.

“So new,” she murmured.

Ramsay’s eyes lit up. He grinned, and she had less than a second’s warning before he flipped her around and bent her over.

This time, she screamed, and he finished much faster.

* * *

 

Sansa was no fool.

She had friends in the North, or so an old serving-woman had told her. She did not know who these friends were, or how many men they commanded, or even if they were really her friends at all. But even if her friends could command ten thousand men and sought only to free her, Winterfell was a stronghold that had stood for millennia and Lord Bolton’s men had already been tested in battle. The Bolton men trained in the yard every day, preparing for Stannis Baratheon’s assault. More than once, she had seen a man slice an ear off a slower opponent and laugh as he attempted to stop the flow of blood. If she asked her Northern friends to set her free, Lord Bolton’s men would do the same to her the second they saw their banners.

She considered them from her window. It was highly unlikely that they would be bested in the open field, especially if Lord Roose meant to draw the Baratheon forces into attacking Winterfell. The Bolton men were Northerners, and knew the land well; from a familiar stronghold they would be nigh unstoppable. Stannis was already marching towards them, but would not come to Winterfell for several weeks, perhaps months if the snows held. His men would be exhausted when they arrived at the gates; they would need a miracle if they were to prevail in battle.

There was a scream from the yard below. A grizzled-looking Bolton man had slashed the face of the young squire he was duelling. The boy sank to his knees, screaming and clutching at his ruined nose.

She hoped Stannis’s men would be ready for them.

And, of course, for her.

* * *

 

She stayed in her room, most of the time. She made sure she wept loudly, always standing by the window, and she made sure that she was always ready to receive her lord husband. For the moment, he seemed to like the thought that he had the power to corrupt a highborn lady, so she always made sure she looked as beautiful and innocent as possible. It would not last. Ramsay was far too fickle to be satisfied with that mummers’ farce for long; poor Theon was proof of that. Sooner or later, he would force her to be the subject – or instigator – of some fresh new cruelty, but perhaps it would last just long enough for her plan to succeed.

He seemed to have grown to like their little suppers. The food was hot and fresh, there was always a fire burning in the hearth, and she made certain there was always plenty of wine. If she was lucky, he would drink it.

Tonight, some of the Freys were visiting Lord Bolton. As they entered the castle, she had seen their banners from her window. She supposed they were discussing their plans for the Baratheon assault, but she made her preparations just the same.

The door clattered open, and there was her husband. He slammed the door behind him, and before he could say anything she poured him a goblet of wine.

“My lord,” she murmured, handing it to him. He drained it in one gulp and thrust the cup back at her.

“Tell me, wife,” he spat, “what kind of man do you think I am?”

Sansa’s mind whirred. The Freys…

“A worthy man, to be sure,” she said, refilling his goblet. “A fearsome warrior, a brilliant tactician…”

A little of the fury ebbed out of Ramsay’s face. He took another gulp of wine and threw himself into a chair.

“And yet, my father has barred me from his war council. He sits in his chambers with fat little Freys, all of them plotting to beat back the Baratheons, and he sends me away like a child! As if I had not proven myself in battle! As if I had not _single-handedly_ removed the Greyjoys from the North while he was scrabbling around in the Riverlands!”

Sansa gasped. She thought it sounded a little forced, but Ramsay did not appear to notice.

“Surely not, my lord!”

Ramsay said nothing. He drained his goblet again, and she was quick to refill it.

“He’s going to disinherit me,” Ramsay muttered, “in favour of whatever’s squirming around in his fat little wife’s belly. That’s why he shut me out and only speaks to the Freys.”

Sansa felt a little stab of fear. If Lord Roose disinherited Ramsay, she would be married to a bastard, with nothing to protect her from him…

“My lord,” she said, thinking fast, “your father would never disinherit you. Only a man can rule the North. He would never leave it in the hands of a child.”

Moodily, Ramsay reached for a chicken leg.

“Then why would he shut me out of his war council?”

She licked her lips, nervously. She took a deep breath.

“Perhaps, my lord,” she whispered, “your father is afraid of you.”

Ramsay stared at her.

“He has seen what you are capable of,” she said, sitting next to him and leaning in close, “you single-handedly sent the Ironborn running back to their ships! You brought the Cerwyns to heel! Your father is a skilled warrior, but my sweet lord, you must see that you have far surpassed him!”

Ramsay’s mouth was slightly open. He was holding his half-eaten chicken leg in his hand, and appeared to have forgotten it.

“My father is afraid of nothing,” he said, but his voice was slow, doubtful.

“If he does not fear you, he certainly envies you. He has seen your skill, my lord; he knows you are capable of far greater things.”

Ramsay said nothing. She refilled his wine goblet and pulled the dish of chicken a little closer to him. He did not appear to notice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Just so you're aware, there's an abortion scene in this chapter right at the end. Feel free to skip it if you find it upsetting, I won't judge. Enjoy!

 

Sansa made sure everyone could hear her weeping.

It was not difficult. She had so much to weep about that it was easy for her to call forth tears, and if she left the shutters on her bedroom window open a crack the sound would echo all across the courtyard.

When she was not weeping, other sounds echoed back to her.

Since they had been married, Ramsay fought with his father every other day. She was glad of it. Ramsay was all fire and no forethought, but his father was a much more dangerous man. She was certain that Lord Bolton was always planning something – she could see it in his cold grey eyes – but when he had his hot-headed son to contend with, perhaps his plans would not work out so neatly.

When Ramsay returned to their room, he would always take it out on her, but all she had to do was keep screaming and it would be over soon enough. It hurt so badly that her flesh burned for days afterwards, but she made sure she left the shutters open for that, too.

She wanted all of Winterfell to hear her suffer.

She still kept to her room. She sent away her servants as often as she could, and made sure that when they all saw her, her eyes were red from crying.

Well, all but one.

Ramsay had made Myranda her new lady’s maid. Sansa supposed it amused him to think of the two of them torturing each other all day, and resolved not to give either of them the satisfaction. Myranda’s spiteful little barbs bounced off Sansa’s skin as though she were wearing armour beneath her dress. She was no longer Ramsay’s favourite plaything, and bitterness was written all over her face. Sansa knew that sooner or later, Ramsay would tire of her and return to his mistress, but she did not care.

Myranda would not be around for much longer.

* * *

 

 

When her bleeding stopped, and the retching started, Sansa was ready for it.

She had always known she would bear Ramsay a child. It would have been impossible not to, with the rate that he forced himself upon her. She spent an entire morning emptying the contents of her stomach into a chamber-pot, her whole body aching. Tears streamed down her face, her arms and legs shook, but she was prepared.

In King’s Landing, after Joffrey had threatened to rape her, she had told everything to Shae in a fit of sobbing. A few days later, Shae had pressed a little leather pouch filled with herbs into her hands. They were so finely ground that they could have been powder, and Shae assured her that if the king ever did force himself on her, she should dissolve one pinch in a cup of hot water and she would not bear a child.

She still had the pouch, tucked safely at the bottom of a chest full of her clothes. The chest was filled with other pouches just like it, except these were filled with lavender; she was confident that no-one would find it there.

Sansa settled herself by the window, made sure it was open, and began to cry again. She pinched the skin under her eyelids, making the dark circles darker, and wailed until her voice was hoarse.

Then, she rang for a servant.

It was time to visit the maester.

* * *

 

After she came back from the maester, it took her a long time to get ready for Ramsay. When she had left their room her face was pale, there were dark shadows under her eyes, and her face was blotchy from crying. She had two servants help her to the maester’s chambers, and they had both seen the bruises on her body as the maester examined her. Once she had hobbled back to their room, she had asked the servants to draw her a bath, and then she had sent them on her way.

Then, she washed her hair until it shone, pressed a cold cloth under her eyes to ease away the dark circles, and scrubbed her face free of tears.

Then she dressed herself, and waited.

When he came, the food and wine was all ready for him, and so was she. He was in a good mood that night, and allowed her to refill his goblet three times while he told her of his latest victory over his father. He had been asked to secure the loyalty of House Umber, Karstark and Tallhart, and as he spoke, his face grew ever more flushed with wine.

“That is good news indeed, my lord,” she said, “and I am happy to say that I have some news of my own to share with you.”

He looked up at her, a vaguely irritated expression on his face. “Well?”

She smiled shyly, and put her hands on her stomach. “I am with child.”

A slow, disbelieving grin spread across Ramsay’s face. “At last! Is it a son? When will it be born?”

“Not for some months yet, my lord,” she said, “the maester said it’s very early days. But he said as long as I get plenty of rest and do not over-exert myself, the baby will be just as strong and healthy as you are.”

Ramsay frowned. “Over-exert yourself?”

She blushed a little. “I took him to mean that I should abstain from anything that might…over-excite me. Apparently women must be very careful when they’re carrying a child.”

Ramsay glowered into the fire, taking another gulp of wine. In truth, the maester had said no such thing, but she was sick of him touching her. Ramsay believed his inheritance was at stake. With his son in her belly, he would not dare come near her.

“What will you name your son, my lord?” she asked.

He smirked. Sansa knew he liked it when she called him ‘my lord’.

“Oh, you can attend to all that business,” he said, emptying his goblet again, “as long as there are plenty of them I don’t care what you call them.”

She forced a laugh and refilled his cup. “Shall we have many children, my lord?”

“A dynasty,” he said, lurching to his feet, “a dynasty of true-born Northmen who shall take what’s theirs! No squalling Frey brats will deprive me of my legacy!”

He staggered towards her, dragging her towards the bed, a drunken grin plastered across his face.

“A dynasty!” he muttered, tugging at the neck of her gown, “ _my_ dynasty!”

All at once, he pitched forwards onto the bed, snoring. Sansa hauled his legs up onto the mattress and smiled.

_Perfect_.

* * *

 

 

It had taken Sansa some time before she could put the next stage of her plan into motion. Ramsay did not want to jeopardise the future of his ‘dynasty’, not with his legacy at stake, so he had taken the maester’s advice to heart. Instead of bedding her, she would feed him endless cups of wine as he told her about his father’s endless faults, the ever-meddling Freys, and his incompetent subordinates. When he was very drunk, he would tell her about his plans. After two cups of wine, he would tell her how he was going to smash Stannis Baratheon’s forces. After three, he would proclaim that he could defeat Ser Loras Tyrell in single combat. After four, he was planning to turn the Freys out of their castles, and told her she could decide which ones would be allowed to stay alive. After five, he began muttering about Dorne.

After a while, she learned that he was directing his attentions to Myranda once again. Sansa was not surprised. Myranda was a natural match for Ramsay’s cruelty; he would never have stayed apart from her for long. He was still fond of her, in his own twisted way. She did not want to risk discovery, so she waited for Ramsay to leave on one of his scouting missions before she could make her move.

The day Ramsay left, she took the pouch from the bottom of its chest, along with one of the others filled with lavender. She emptied out the lavender and threw it on the fire, making sure it was completely empty. Then, she put half of the little bag of herbs into the empty pouch and hid the first one back in her trunk. The second she hid up her sleeve, making sure she could still reach it easily.

Then, she summoned Myranda, and asked for a pot of mint tea.

Myranda stalked out of the room and Sansa made sure that she was sitting close to the open window – and within arm’s reach of the bell that would summon the servants. The little pouch was secure up her sleeve; she could feel its comforting weight against her arm.

Myranda returned with the tea and a half-hearted attempt at a curtsey. “Anything else, milady?”

“Yes,” said Sansa, “a glass of cold water; this tea looks much too hot. And when you’re done, you can check my clothes for moth-holes, and Lord Ramsay’s, too.”

Myranda stalked out. The second she was gone, Sansa shook the pouch of herbs from her sleeve and emptied all but a pinch into the teapot. She kept the pouch in her lap, and thanked the gods that the smell of the mint tea was strong enough to disguise the rest of the herbs.

Myranda stomped back into the room, slammed the glass of water down on the table and stalked over to the garderobe. She began taking their clothes out, one by one, and examining the folds of fabric with her back to the little table.

Sansa took a deep breath and drank the tea. She drained the cup – diluting it with cold water as she went – and poured herself another. As gently as she dared, she tossed the half-empty pouch onto the floor. It landed just where she wanted – not two inches from Myranda’s feet.

She raised the cup to her lips again when she felt her insides twist. She took a quick sip – just for luck, she told herself – and felt another stab of pain.

It happened all at once. Sansa felt a burning, twisting pain in her abdomen as she clattered to the floor. Her fingers brushed the bell and it fell down with her, ringing as it went. Guards and servants sprinted into the room just as Myranda turned around and just as Sansa began to scream, still clutching at her stomach, blood spreading across her skirts.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes I did have a rage-fuelled fanfic session where I finished three chapters yesterday. Why do you ask?
> 
> Also, there's more references to abortion in this chapter, but it isn't as graphic as last time. Skipping rule still applies if you aren't comfortable with it though.

There was no question of Myranda’s guilt.

Every kitchen maid could recognise tansy tea; the maester had no difficulty. They had found the herbs at Myranda’s feet, she had brought the drink up to Sansa’s room, and everyone knew she had been Ramsay’s bedwarmer. She had been dragged off to the dungeons while Sansa was still screaming.

She had lost the baby. She could feel it long before the maester told her so. She felt strangely empty, even though she had not wanted the child by any means. If she ever had children again – and she was not sure if she could, after drinking tansy tea – they would not be Ramsay’s. She did not know if she would ever have children borne of love, but she could have children borne of respect, of tenderness, and certainly not from pain or force.

Now, she was confined to her bed.

It had hurt a lot more than she had expected, but she could not regret her decision.

She would not bring Boltons into the world.

* * *

 

 

Ramsay returned to Winterfell early.

The Bolton men had long since split between those who supported Ramsay and those who supported his father. One of Ramsay’s men who had stayed behind sent a raven to the Karhold – where he was flaying some poor Karstark – and he had ridden home the second he read the message.

She could hear him arguing with his father in the Great Hall, and called up her tears once more. Moments later, her bedroom door burst open. Ramsay barged into the room, his face white, quickly followed by his father.

“My lord,” she whimpered, trying to sit up. She could have managed it if she tried, even though her arms shook, but she let herself fall back onto the bed. Ramsay dropped to his knees and seized her hand, his eyes burning with fury.

“What happened?” he snapped.

“Our baby,” Sansa whispered, “she…she took our son…”

Ramsay squeezed her hand so tightly she could feel the bones in her hand grinding together. Tears of pain sprang to her eyes, and she let them fall.

“Who did this?” he hissed, “give me a name.”

“My lady’s maid,” she whimpered, “Myranda. Oh gods, my lord, she…she…”

Ramsay tore his hand away and Sansa dissolved into tears. He straightened up and stalked towards the door, where his father still stood.

Lord Bolton held out a placating hand. “This is not wise. I know you are angry, but –”

Ramsay ignored him. He pushed right past his father, smacking into him with his shoulder. Sansa half expected him to call his son back, or to send his men after him, but he did nothing. He simply stood in the doorway and watched her cry, an inscrutable expression on his face.

* * *

 

 

Eventually, Ramsay flayed Myranda, but it took him weeks before he grew bored enough to do it. As she lay in her bed, Sansa heard her distant screams. For a while she felt guilty, but then one of the maids told her about the way she had hunted down Ramsay’s other bedwarmers, and then Sansa’s guilt subsided.

When the maester had deemed her well enough to leave her bed, Ramsay insisted upon showing her his handiwork. She had not flinched, or looked away, because after Ramsay had finished with her, Myranda’s body looked more like a pig strung up in the smokehouse than the woman she had once been.

She had been sick afterwards, when he could not see.

Of course, now that she had been deemed well enough to leave her bed, Ramsay had invited himself back into it. Every night he attempted to make another son, but after her miscarriage he seemed different. He was not gentle, nor would he ever be, but it seemed as though he was at least trying. Perhaps, she thought, he had taken the maester’s advice to heart.

Soon enough, his efforts paid off.

* * *

 

 

Sansa found out she was with child again when Stannis Baratheon’s army were three days’ march from Winterfell. She had wondered if she might be better off keeping it from him and taking tansy tea straight away, but once a maid saw her retching into a chamber pot she knew she could not keep it a secret for long.

So she told him, and his face flooded with relief.

“Excellent!” he said, “I’ll tell my father. We shall have a feast in my son’s name, and Stannis Baratheon’s head will be the dish of honour.”

Sansa forced back a grimace. “Wait, my lord,” she pleaded, “I beg you, do not tell your lord father just yet. After…after what happened last time, I should much rather keep the news a secret. I could not bear to lose another child.”

Ramsay shoved her away, irritated. “My father would not dare jeopardise my son’s life. It is his legacy as much as mine.”

“And your stepmother?” Sansa retorted, “Would she be so cautious? You know how she favours the Freys.”

He hesitated at that. She seized her chance and took a step towards him.

“You are right, of course,” she said, her voice loaded with submission, “we could not keep it a secret forever. But…please, my lord, let us keep it to ourselves, just until the Baratheons have been defeated. I do not trust Lady Walda; she might take any opportunity to put a Frey in your rightful seat.”

Ramsay looked thoughtful.

“All right,” he said eventually, “I’ll keep your secret. But I want you to stay out of the way when the Baratheons get here. I’ll not have my son’s life put in danger by your stupidity.”

“Of course, my lord.”

He left, and Sansa wondered what he would do if she ever gave him a daughter.

She shuddered.

* * *

 

 

The Baratheon forces came at night.

Someone burst into their room, holding a flaming torch aloft and screaming for Ramsay. They both jerked awake at once and he sprang out of bed, pulling on his clothes and doling out instructions. Sansa listened closely, feigning sleepy ignorance.

“…and fetch up my squire. Have him ready my armour, and my horse. I’ll be leading the vanguard –”

“But my lord,” the man interrupted, “your lord father has commanded that all the gates be shut fast…”

“And how many gates does this bloody castle have?” Ramsay roared, “Has Stannis surrounded them all?”

“N-no, my lord. His forces are concentrated around the Hunter’s Gate, but he has parties posted –”

“Then we’ll go out round the North Gate and fuck him in the arse!”

He wheeled around, turning on Sansa. She flinched back at the look in his eye, and he grinned.

“And you,” he ordered, “stay here –”

An arrow thudded into the shutters. Sansa shrieked and scrambled away from the window. Ramsay swore.

“Go down to the damn crypts, then! And stay there until I come and find you!”

He left, taking the serving-man with him. Sansa bolted the door behind him and scrambled through the wooden chest. She found the pouch of herbs, and then darted over to the table and filled a metal goblet with water. Taking care to wrap something around her hands, she held the goblet over the fire in the hearth, wincing at the heat. When the water began to steam, she took the goblet out of the fire and dissolved a pinch of the herbs in it.

She drained the goblet in one go, and waited, her chamber-pot at the ready.

When she saw Stannis Baratheon, it would not be with a Bolton in her belly.

* * *

 

 

When she was done, Sansa threw the contents of the chamber-pot on the fire. It had not hurt as much as the last time – perhaps because she had acted so much faster – but she was still light-headed. The remnants of their supper lay on the table, and she picked at them as best she could until her strength returned to her. Then she washed herself and dressed in her finest clothes.

She must be warm, yet look every inch the lady. Her plan would never work if they supposed her to be little more than a serving-girl, so she made sure to dress herself in white and grey, the colours of House Stark.

She took a lantern and one of Ramsay’s old cloaks with her. It was a mangy thing, the fur all but falling off, but it had a heavy hood and would cover her dress well, if she needed it to. She rolled it up small and tucked it under her arm, hiding it under her own white fur cloak.

Then, she unbolted the door and headed for the courtyard.

It was chaos.

All the watchtowers around the inner wall were peppered with arrows; they cast strange, spiky shadows in the torchlight. Men ran along the battlements, their armour clanking as they went, screaming orders at each other. The courtyard was crammed with yelling soldiers, all of them heading to the Hunter’s Gate. The North Gate was closed and barred – evidently Ramsay’s party had already left.

She darted towards the crypts and a hand clamped down on her shoulder. She whirled around and saw one of Lord Bolton’s men; a stern, grizzled-looking man of about forty with a long scar running down his face.

“Lady Sansa,” he yelled over the clattering of battle, “you should head inside! It’s not safe for you out here!”

“Lord Ramsay told me to hide down in the crypts!” she cried, her eyes glistening with tears, “an arrow almost killed him in our chamber! It came right through the window and – and –”

She burst into tears, and heard the man swear loudly.

“All right!” he yelled, “I’ll get you to the crypts!”

Grabbing her by the upper arm, he steered her through the crowd of soldiers and deposited her at the door to the crypts.

“Oh, thank you, Ser, thank you…”

He winked at her. “Just you remember to tell your Lord Ramsay that it was Torrhen what brought you here safe.”

Then, he was gone, and Sansa darted through the door. She headed straight down to the crypts, but did not stay there. She only walked through them, her lantern held high, to make sure that she was alone.

Then, she returned to the entrance to wait.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks for all the feedback - I really appreciate it! Enjoy!

Once, when she was still a little girl, she had played a hiding game with her brothers and sister.

Bran had been too young to want to hide on his own, even though he had insisted that he knew all the best places. In the end, Arya had run off to hide while Jon and Robb were still arguing about what to do, and she had been left to hide with Bran.

He seized her hand and began dragging her off towards the North Gate, his pudgy little legs working furiously. At first, she had thought that he was leading her towards the entrance to the crypts, but they went right past it. He led her to a small gap in the wall, all but hidden in the shadow of the gate-tower, and they had climbed inside.

They stood in a stone passageway that ran all the way around to the South Gate. At the other end, it opened out onto the drawbridge between the inner and outer walls at the southern end of the castle. After a whispered discussion, they had decided that going outside the inner wall would count as cheating, so they had retreated back towards the North Gate and stayed there, sniggering at their own cleverness.

Now, in the entrance to the crypts, Sansa watched the North Gate.

There were a few soldiers on the battlements above the North Gate, but they were all facing away from her, their eyes fixed on the outer wall. Occasionally, one of them would sprint off towards the Hunter’s Gate, but they rarely turned their eyes to the courtyard. The courtyard itself was still busy, with men running back and forth, carrying messages, bundles of arrows, and heavy pitchers of oil. Slowly, the flood of soldiers running towards the Hunter’s Gate began to ease off. Soon, the courtyard was all but deserted.

She set down her lantern, shook out Ramsay’s old cloak and draped it around her shoulders, completely covering her own white fur wrap. She pulled the hood over her head too, in case anyone should recognise her red hair, and concealed the lantern as best she could beneath the cloak.

A flurry of snow began to fall and Sansa smiled.

_Winter is coming_ , she thought.

She darted out into the courtyard and headed for the gap in the wall.

* * *

 

 

Sansa walked along the passageway, her lantern held aloft, Ramsay’s stolen cloak tucked under her arm. The passageway was smaller than she remembered – it had seemed cavernous all those years before – but it was still wide enough for grown men to walk along it single file.

She could hear the winds howling against the walls, and the thud of men’s feet over her head. It was cold enough in the passage that her breath misted in front of her face – it must still be snowing – and it looked like little puffs of yellow smoke in the light of her lantern.

Still, she walked on. Her hands were shaking so badly that the lamp-light trembled. A terrified little voice in the back of her mind was hissing in her ear, telling her to run back down to the crypts and wait for Ramsay to come and fetch her. She had no place in battle, in games of strategy, what was she  _doing_ , heading right where the fighting was thickest?

She ignored her fears, and kept walking.

Soon, she came to the southern entrance to the passage. Stowing her lantern behind the stone wall, she peeked through the gap in the stone.

She was in luck.

Stannis’s men had breached the outer wall, and were hammering away at the inner gate with a battering ram. Bolton men were raining arrows on their heads, but they had held up their shields and they clattered off harmlessly.

Sansa took a deep, steadying breath and placed her lantern in front of the gap. She darted backwards as soon as she had set it down, and sure enough, an arrow clattered through the stone blocks. But she did not have long to wait; soon, a man in armour was peering through the entryway.

The second he saw a person in the passage, he raised his sword, but when he noticed her white and grey dress, he hesitated.

“Be still, Ser,” she hissed, “I am Sansa Stark. I have no weapon. I have come to lead your men into the castle. May I take my lantern?”

He nodded, and very slowly, she reached out and held it up. The light fell on a man no older than thirty with long brown hair, and his lips parted when he saw her face.

“I mean you no harm, Lady Stark,” he said.

She smiled. “And nor do I, Ser. I would see your men breach the inner wall. This passage leads directly to the courtyard, it will see you past the guards. I beg you, Ser, move quietly, and they need not suspect a thing.”

His eyes narrowed. “And how do I know there are not Bolton men waiting for us on the other side?”

“I have no love for the Boltons,” she spat, allowing the tears to creep into her voice, “they massacred my family at the Twins. Please, Ser, do not waste this chance!”

For a moment, he looked at her, his face reluctant. Then he darted back towards the battering ram, and soon a line of soldiers began making their way along the inner wall. He was back within seconds, and she could see the soldiers’ faces behind him.

“Follow me,” she said, turning to lead them through the passage. She felt a sharp point pressing at her back and her blood ran cold.

“That I will, Lady Stark,” the man said, “but just you remember – we’re all armed.”

She nodded, and led them down the tunnel.

* * *

 

 

The walk seemed longer with a sword at her back. Stannis’s men moved silently, although their armour clanked as they walked. Her hands still trembled and her arms grew heavy from holding up the lantern, but she did not stop her progress.

Soon, she saw the gap in the wall ahead of her. Her heart leapt.

“We are almost there, Ser,” she whispered, “see that gap on your left. It leads into the courtyard by the North Gate. If you turn right you shall be directly beneath it. The door in the gate-tower will take you up onto the walls. Did you bring King Stannis’s banners?”

“Only one.”

“Then you shall have to burn every Bolton standard you see.”

She heard laughter at that, and she smiled to herself. She turned to face the knight, and saw a long line of faces behind him.

“You may find me in the crypts, when you have won your battle. Remember me to your king, Ser; I shall do the same for you, when I see him.”

She pulled Ramsay’s cloak over her shoulders and held out her hand.

“May the Warrior watch over you all, Ser…”

He took her hand and kissed it, smiling at her. Once, it would have sent butterflies scurrying through her stomach, but now she felt nothing.

“Ser Harys Cobb, Lady Stark. There is only one god that watches over us, and we have come to do his work.”

She smiled. “Then I hope he shall protect you too, Ser.”

She pulled the hood over her head, and led them out into the courtyard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done now :D for the curious - the tunnel in the walls is actually mentioned in the ASOIAF books, I'm really hoping they use it!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the feedback, guys! Here's the last chapter, hope you all like it :)
> 
> Also, I'm toying with the idea of a sequel, but haven't decided yet - feel free to let me know what you think!

After that, the battle was over in under an hour.

Sansa fled back to the crypts, and this time she hid amongst the statues. She prayed to every god she knew of that Stannis’s men would prevail and that she would be safe, but she did it all with an iron longsword across her lap.

She need not have worried.

When the crypt doors opened and knights came stamping down to the tombs, it was Ser Harys Cobb who led them, a triumphant smile on his face. When she had first heard the doors open, Sansa had jumped to her feet, desperately trying to hold the ornamental longsword steady. Ser Harys had smirked as he saw her holding it, and she let it clatter to the ground, one hand on her heaving breast.

“The King demands an audience, Lady Stark,” he said, smiling. She had looked away from him, every inch the bashful maiden, and had smiled a little smile she knew they could see.

She followed him out of the crypts, holding her skirts in one delicate hand, Ramsay’s stolen cloak forgotten. As she walked, she remembered advice the advice her first husband had given her.

_Never forget what you are. Wear it like armour, and it can never be used to hurt you_.

She smiled. For all of Lord Tyrion’s faults, he had given very good advice.

* * *

 

 

Stannis Baratheon was waiting for her in the Great Hall, sitting in the lord’s chair. He was still wearing his armour, his helmet set at his feet. He sat rigid in his chair, as though his spine was made of iron, and his face was still grimy with sweat. His mouth was set in a stern line, and Sansa felt fear broiling in her stomach like a pit of snakes.

Ser Harys knelt before him, and she followed suit.

“Lady Sansa Stark, Your Grace. She brought us through the walls and gave us our victory.”

Stannis did not look impressed.

“Lady Sansa Bolton, you mean. D’you owe the battle to a teenage girl, Ser Cobbs?”

Ser Harys said nothing. His mouth twisted, and his eyes flicked in Sansa’s direction. She pretended not to notice.

“Get up, get up,” Stannis snapped. “So, what d’you have to say for yourself, Lady Sansa? Come to beg mercy for your husband?”

Sansa considered him for a moment. She had met Stannis Baratheon once before, but she had been so little that she barely remembered him. He was clearly a plain-spoken man with little time for courtesies, and so honest he was almost rude. He did not strike her as the kind of man who would trade on pity, and he was glaring at her so suspiciously that she knew he would never give her the benefit of the doubt. She would have to prove everything she said.

Luckily, she had prepared for that.

She licked her lips nervously, keeping her eyes downcast.

“No, Your Grace.”

Stannis raised his eyebrows. “Why?” he demanded.

She looked up and met his gaze, holding her head high. High enough that everyone could see the tears rolling down her cheeks.

“I never wanted to be married into the Boltons,” she said, allowing her voice to break, “not after what they did to my family. They…they organised the massacre at the Twins.”

Stannis shifted in his chair. “Your brother was a usurper. Usurpers don’t live long lives.”

Unchecked anger uncurled in the pit of her stomach, like a waking snake.

“Do you know what they did to my brother’s family, Your Grace?”

Stannis said nothing.

“Lord Bolton’s men shot him full of arrows, but he still lived. They stabbed his wife in the stomach – she was with child, did you know that? – and he was trying to reach her. Lord Roose stabbed him himself, his own liege lord, right through the heart. They shot my mother as well, and slit her throat when she begged for mercy. They threw her body in the river, and that of my sister-by-law. Then, Your Grace, they sewed his direwolf’s head onto my brother’s body and paraded it around the Twins, so everyone could see what they had done.”

The Great Hall was utterly silent. Sansa’s face was wet with tears, but she held her head up high, and there was only one man in the Hall who could meet her burning gaze.

Stannis looked straight at her, gripping the arms of the lord’s chair.

“How do you know all this?” he muttered, “You were not at the Twins.”

“My husband,” she said, her voice cracking, “my husband _made sure_ I knew.”

A flurry of whispering ran around the hall. Sansa cleared her throat; she did not want her voice to falter.

“He is a cruel man,” she said, her voice growing stronger now, “and he has always been cruel. He has raped half the women in Winterfell, Your Grace, and I was no exception. He has mutilated prisoners, dismembered them and sent the pieces to their families, and he hung their flayed bodies over the gates of my family home. If you care to look, you will find some hanging by the gate that leads to Winter Town, but I would advise against it.”

Stannis’s knuckles were white. His jaw was clenched, and if he were a lesser man Sansa might have thought he would be sick. Somewhere in the Hall, women were weeping, lords were shifting guiltily in their places, and knights were trembling with rage inside their armour.

“And yet,” Stannis muttered, “knowing all this, you still married him.”

“I had no _choice_!” she spat, “the match was organised without my knowledge or my consent! Lord Baelish did not even tell me of his plans until we were at the gates of Winterfell!”

“You could have run away –”

She let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, anger burning under her skin. “Your Grace, I have lived in the North since I was a child; everyone knows my face. My father’s bannermen were scattered, my brother’s murderers wanted me to legitimise their claim to the North, and I am by no means a swordsman! Where could I have gone that they would not have followed?”

“You could have gone south –”

“South? Where Cersei Lannister has put a bounty on my head, and with no-one to stop men from claiming it?”

An old man with a close-cropped beard and a curiously short-looking hand stepped forward.

“Mind your tone, milady. Show His Grace the proper respect.”

Inwardly, she reined herself in. Outwardly, she closed her eyes, pressed a hand to her mouth and loudly stifled a sob.

“F-forgive me, Your Grace.”

She fumbled for a handkerchief, her eyes darting around the Hall as she sniffed. The Northern lords looked guilty; _good_ , she thought. Stannis’s men looked furious, half of them were already reaching for their swords. There were not many women in the Hall, but all of them were weeping.

She dabbed at her eyes and looked up at Stannis. He was as rigid and immobile as ever, but he was still gripping his chair with white-knuckled hands.

“Believe me, Your Grace, I bear no love for the Bolton boy. I wept all through our marriage.”

Stannis shifted in his chair again, and spoke to the room at large. “Is this true?”

There was a moment of silence, then an old woman shuffled forward. Sansa recognised her; she was the serving-woman who had told her she still had friends in the North.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Your Grace,” she said, “but it’s all true. She hardly ever left her room, but we could all hear Lady Sansa crying from her tower. And…”

“And what?”

The old woman glanced at Sansa. “And…and screaming, when Lord Ramsay were with her.”

Sansa sniffed into her handkerchief again. The maester stepped forward.

“Your Grace,” he said, his voice sounding immensely tired, “I can vouch for Lady Sansa. She came to me when she was with child, and it was evident that she had been used most cruelly.”

Stannis looked at her, sharply. “You are with child?”

Sansa closed her eyes and shook her head. “No longer, Your Grace. I…I was poisoned. By a serving-girl, I was told.”

An indignant murmur ran through the crowd.

“Very well,” said Stannis, shifting in his seat again, “I believe you. You didn’t love the Bolton boy. But you swore a holy vow to obey him when you married him. You broke it when you led my army in here. You owed him loyalty.”

“Do I owe loyalty to my brother and mother’s murderers, Your Grace?”

Stannis said nothing. Sansa hesitated, thinking very fast.

“I tried to abide by my vows as best I could, Your Grace. I never raised a hand to my husband, or any member of their house, although they used me very cruelly. But I owe loyalty to more than one cause. I owed loyalty to my family, Your Grace, from the day I was born. My father died trying to give you your throne. I am the last Stark. I owe it to him to take up his cause.”

Stannis looked at her for a very long time, his blue eyes burning into hers. She did not look away, even though tears were still streaming down her face. She wanted him to see them.

Then, slowly, he got to his feet. Sansa felt her heartbeat quicken.

“Ser Davos,” he said, “see that Lady Sansa is escorted to her chambers. She will be reinstated as the Lady of Winterfell under my protection. She will enter a period of confinement, and if at the end of it she is not with child, I shall find her a suitable husband.”

Her eyes widened at that. Expectations writhed beneath her skin.

“And as for Ramsay Bolton,” Stannis snarled, “bring me his head!”

The Hall erupted into savage cheers. Sansa fell to her knees and at once, Stannis’s knights sprang forward, eager to help her up again. She was sure that each of them was already planning to make himself her ‘suitable husband’, but for now she did not care. She had set herself free of the Boltons – and she had done it all by speaking nothing but the truth.

Ser Davos – the man with the shortened hand – waved the knights away and led her from the room. She was still crying – it was extremely difficult to stop – but it was better that she cried. They were tears of relief, and if she did not cry them away she would laugh until she howled.

“There, now, milady,” Ser Davos said, “don’t cry. Which way to your chamber?”

She shuddered. “Please don’t take me there, Ser Davos. All my husband’s – all Ramsay Bolton’s things will be there. I don’t want to spend a minute longer in his presence. My childhood room will be more than sufficient; it’s just up these stairs.”

He led her up the stairs, servant girls scurrying along in front of them. By the time they reached Sansa’s old bedchamber, a fire was lit in the grate and the mattress was being turned and shook into a better shape. Ser Davos led her to a chair by the fire and bade her sit; she did so and watched as he stationed guards outside her door. Her wooden chest was brought in, as were some fresh furs for the bed and a small plate of bread, wine and cheese.

“I’ll be back to check on you tomorrow morning, milady,” Ser Davos said, “you just try to get some rest.”

She thanked him, and he locked the door behind him.

Sansa let out a long sigh and poured herself a goblet of wine. Stannis Baratheon would eventually prove to be a problem, especially if he thought he could compel her to marry one of his Stormlander knights. But she had plenty of time. She could easily drag out her period of confinement for however long she wanted to, and Stannis would not wait for his throne forever.

She strolled over to the window, peering down into the courtyard.

Stannis Baratheon stood outside, holding a flaming sword. Two men knelt before him. Even at this distance, she knew who they were. She could hear Ramsay swearing, screaming obscenities at them so loudly that one of Stannis’s knights struck him across the face with his gauntleted hand.

Stannis raised his sword.

Sansa took a sip of wine.

Stannis Baratheon swung his sword, and Roose Bolton’s head rolled onto the ground. Ramsay started yelling again, fighting to get free, and Sansa’s hand tightened around her wine glass. Stannis raised his sword again, and Ramsay yelled no more.

Sansa set down her wine. She pulled the shutters closed and crept over to the door, listening hard; her guards were still outside. Carefully, she picked up a pillow from the bed and pressed it over her mouth.

Then, she began to laugh.


End file.
